


Even Now I Lie Awake

by Unadulterated



Series: Under Ishvalla [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Ishvalan AU, Ishvalan Character(s) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 15:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10027670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unadulterated/pseuds/Unadulterated
Summary: Roy Mustang learns something...unfortunateabout a particular subordinate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "History Has Its Eyes On You" because I get Mustang vibes from Washington in the musical (and Ed vibes from Hamilton, who's surprised, anyone? Didn't think so).
> 
> It is my solid headcanon that Ishvalan eyes are always dominant, genetically. In other words, if you don’t have red eyes, no other feature will make a person jump to think Ishvalan unless they a) are Ishvalan themselves or b) have some other knowledge about you that made them think that.
> 
> I pulled this from the fact that Scar, running around killing people with white hair and dark skin, didn’t get pegged as Ishvalan until his glasses came off, and everyone was so surprised. No, “oh, he is Ishvalan,” just really shocked. Same with Miles—even Kimblee didn’t seem to put the pieces together until Miles takes off his glasses and straight up tells him.
> 
> Of course, Xerxian genes don’t interact with Ishvalan ones in canon…
> 
> And don't expect a whole lot of Roy POV in the series, after this. This is mostly just set-up.

The phone rings, an obnoxious jangle that startles Roy just enough to make him twitch. He lifts his head from where he’s reading on the couch and stares in the direction of the noise. It’s not often that he gets phone calls in his home on weekdays; the personal reasons wait for weekends, and any messages he needs to receive usually come in the form of a person.

Still, he sets his book down, gets to his feet, and picks up the phone by the fourth ring. “Roy Mustang.”

“Roy-boy,” says a rich contralto on the other end of the line, “I hope your day was better than mine.”

Roy’s eyebrows climb up his forehead. Chris very rarely calls him without a go-between. “If you have to ask, Madame Christmas, then I would guess that it was,” he says. “Anything I should be concerned about?”

Chris just hums, not responding right away, which is when Roy starts growing worried. “I’ve got something rough for you. Do me a favor and sit down. Pour yourself some of the good stuff.”

The worry starts to solidify in his gut, and he pulls the phone away from his head to give it a proper side-eye. Chris is acting _strange_. Still, Roy rarely passes up her advice, so he says, “Just a moment,” sets the phone down, and gets his good brandy out of his liquor cabinet. If she says he’s going to need it, he’s prepared to end up drinking half the bottle. He pours two fingers into a tumbler to start off with and sits down before picking up the phone again, tucking it against his ear. “Alright. What is it?”

“I’ve been hunting a rumor for a while, and finally got it nailed down with some information from the ghetto.” The ghetto by Central—where relocated Ishvalans hunkered down and tried to stay out of sight.

Roy is now exceptionally wary of what news is going to need the good brandy. “Please tell me your conclusion before you make me follow along with your information network. I already know it’s very impressive, and you’re making me nervous.” Usually he wouldn’t bother, but anything to do with Ishval…

A rush of noise across the phone: Chris sighing. “The Elric boys’ mother was Ishvalan.”

He closes his eyes and swallows, resting his elbows on the table. He’d hoped, and almost managed to convince himself, but—“The skin tone and the hair match,” he says steadily. “Was she half? A quarter?” It would hardly be unprecedented; Ishvalan genes tend to come through strong.

“Full Ishvalan.”

Oh.

That’s what the brandy’s for. Roy takes a swallow, focuses on the burn as it goes down, and waits a moment before daring to respond. “But his _eyes_ —“

“I know,” Chris says, and Roy falls silent, staring at his tumbler like it holds what he needs to make sense of this. “But my contact found the man who raised a girl named Tarikha Al-Rik. He alternately cursed and blessed the fact that she’d left Ishval before the war even started. Run off with some golden-eyed Amestrian, he said.”

An Ishvalan moving further away from the borders of the country and Amestrianizing their name hadn’t been unheard of, before the war had happened and no name could save you from hate and death. Tarikha Al-Rik. Trisha Elric.

 _She was sick_ , Roy thinks desperately, gripping the edge of his chair so tightly his knuckles are white. _They said she died from an illness_. He didn’t kill her, he knows that. She wasn’t even in Ishval. The boys weren’t trying to piece back together a woman who died burning. But damn it all if he isn’t going to have nightmares about it anyway.

“I see,” he says, neutrally as he can.

“He said he never met the boys,” she continues. “You know I try to look out for you, and if they’ve already been under your command for three years, I doubt they decided to get in close for vengeance.” Roy grimaces despite himself. “But be careful, Roy.”

“Of course,” he says automatically.

Chris pauses, like she knows Roy’s response is more reflexive than anything. How could he defend himself against those two Ishvalan boys, if they were to decide to attack him? How could he _dare_? “I can tell Hughes in person, if you think that would be best.” He can tell she’d liked to have told him the same way, but it could have been months before they met face-to-face again.

Roy finds himself shaking his head, even though she can’t see it. “I’ll do it.” He owes it to his team to tell them himself.

“Keep yourself safe, Roy-boy,” Chris insists.

“I always do,” Roy tells her.

“Don’t get alcohol poisoning.”

The phone clicks and he’s left listening to the dial tone. He sets the phone back on its hook and stares at it for a long moment before turning back to his drink.

He can’t let himself forget about this by morning, but he needs the alcohol to numb him before the shock wears off and the pain hits. _They’re Ishvalan._

_I recruited an Ishvalan into the military that murdered his people._

He’s not sure half a bottle is going to be enough.

 

* * *

 

It takes less than twenty-four hours before something horrible happens, and Roy wonders if it makes his soul any blacker than it already is that Tucker’s crime brings with it a fleeting sense of relief: now he has a solid reason to get Maes into town. Because he _does_ deserve to be told in person, and now Roy can tell everyone who needs to know at once, without having to open up the wound of Ishval more than once.

Then it passes, and Roy sits back in his desk chair and stares at the ceiling, hating himself. Goddamn State Alchemists. Monsters, all of them. Especially himself.

But not Fullmetal. Not _yet_.

Even the idea of looking at Fullmetal hurts, but Roy has a duty to him as his commanding officer, and as the one who dragged him into this mess. So when he hears the Elrics are still sitting outside in the rain and ignoring anyone who comes by, he knows he has knock them back on their path before they let themselves truly stall. He makes himself stand and leave his office, Riza a half-step behind him.

They walk out in the rain, and Riza glances up at the roofs around them before training her eyes straight ahead. Paranoia dies hard, if at all.

“If there’s such thing as the work of the devil, then this was it,” Riza says quietly.

“The devil?” Roy huffs a quiet laugh. “All State Alchemists are nothing but the military’s human weapons.” Al’s armor is visible down the stairs, and he raises his voice just enough to be heard. “We do they want, we obey orders, and we don’t complain if we get our hands dirty in the process. When it comes to messing with human lives, Tucker’s actions aren’t so different from our own.”

“That’s the logic of an adult, sir,” Riza tells him. Quietly reprimanding, even if she knows, just as he does, that the boys can’t afford much softness, even after a horror like this one. “Even if Edward acts older than his years, he’s still a child.”

Roy opens his mouth to retort and has the bad luck of spotting Fullmetal right at that moment. He’s sitting a few steps down from his brother, fingers wrapped in his coat and his shoulders up around his ears.

The evening had grown dark quickly, thanks to the rain, so it’s hard to see how dark Fullmetal’s skin really is, and the street lights give his pale hair a yellowish tint. It doesn’t help. Roy _knows_ now, and he’s never going to be able to forget.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, before he can stop himself.

Fullmetal looks up at him, miserable and confused. For a split second that Roy knows is his imagination, Ed’s eyes look like rubies instead of gold, and every muscle in his arms lock up as his hands curl into fists in his pockets.

 _Look at the people you killed in the face_ , he remembers. _And don’t forget them._

_They won’t forget you either._

He swears he can feel Riza’s eyes on the back of his head. She knows that’s not what he meant to say. She can tell something’s wrong. He just needs a few more hours—until Maes is here and he can tell them both, lighten this weight on his chest. But before that can happen, he has to stand here and try to help a boy he can hardly force himself to look at. Roy takes a breath. “You of all people should know that you can’t do anything to save her now.” _And I of all people can’t bring myself to break you._

“We know,” Alphonse says, sounding tired and small.

“Not yet,” Fullmetal whispers, so quiet that Roy doesn’t think he was meant to hear. He doesn’t want Fullmetal to delude himself, but what’s the difference between this and their goal of getting their bodies back?

Nothing.

The rain pours down, but Roy doesn’t think that’s why he feels so useless as he slowly continues his way down the steps. “I’m sorry there’s nothing we can do.” He pauses, just long enough to look over his shoulder, and yes, the sight of Fullmetal still hurts. Maybe if he looks at him enough he’ll just start to go numb. That might be nice. “Get out of the rain, Fullmetal. You’ll catch a cold.”

They’re less than a block from Eastern Headquarters when Riza’s tense patience runs out. “Sir—“

“When does Maes get in?”

She gives him a look out of the corner of her eye. “He left on the last train out of Central. He should get here late tonight, and take Tucker back to Central tomorrow to wait for trial.”

Roy takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, focusing on the way the rain falls. The scent of it, the chill, the way it dampens the noise and the light of the city evening. “Please wait for him at the station, and bring him to my house when he gets here. I have something to talk to you two about.”

Riza nods sharply. “Of course, sir.” She doesn’t try to ask any more questions, and in a few more blocks they part ways.

Now, he has a few hours to figure out how to break the news. It probably won’t help. But maybe it will be enough time to at least remember any other look on Fullmetal’s face besides that expression of heartbreak and confusion, the same one Roy sees in his nightmares just before he _snaps_ and children go up in smoke.

 

* * *

 

 Even after Mustang turns the corner, Ed stays facing where he’d gone, staring at nothing through the haze of rain. “There has to be _something_ we can do. Even if we—we couldn’t save her.”

Al creaks and Ed feels his gauntlet settle on his shoulder. “Maybe we could go see her? So that way she won’t get lonely.”

“Yeah.” Ed lets out a sharp, harsh bark of laughter. “She’s gotta be lonely, when it’s just her and that piece of shit that calls himself her father in that huge house.” Ed squints up at the sky, trying and failing to resist blinking when the raindrops fall close enough to brush his lashes.

Al’s gauntlet slowly retreats as Al hesitantly says, “D—do you think she understands what happened at all?”

“God, I hope not,” Ed says, shaking his head like it’ll make that depressing thought leave, but it’s too late, it’s clawing its way into his brain. “If she does, then—she’s alone in there. With the guy that did that to her.” His fists clench. “Why did we leave her there, Al?” _We can’t just leave her there._

“It’s getting late, they won’t let us in,” Al says, because he’s apparently capable of reading Ed’s mind.

Ed gets to his feet and looks over his shoulder. He tries for one of his usual smirks, but it feels the way stretching a stiff back does, when the muscles twinge and pull at the scars from his automail, and he drops it quickly. “We’re alchemists, aren’t we?”

He turns without waiting for an answer and hops down two steps. He pauses for a moment, expecting the sound of Al getting up to follow, but it doesn’t come. Al is still sitting on the steps when he looks over his shoulder, helmet staring up at the cloudy skies. “Yeah. Alchemists.” It takes a moment before Al looks back down at Ed, and it feels almost like an accusation. Like Tucker, grinning his mad grin. _Alchemists_. Just like the bastard that did this to Nina.

But it’s not like this is the first time alchemy has felt like blood on his hands.

Al holds out a gauntlet and watches the rain fall onto it, and Ed’s throat tries to choke up at the reminder that his little brother can’t even feel the raindrops, but he swallows through it as Al gets to his feet.

“Let’s go, Al,” Ed says quietly. This time, when he starts forward, he doesn’t wait. “The rain’s getting cold.”


End file.
